


Made From You

by burnthiscityxx



Category: One Direction (Band), Taylor Swift (Musician)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-05-04 17:06:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5341829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burnthiscityxx/pseuds/burnthiscityxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I think the thing with songwriting is everyone writes from personal experience. It's not always necessarily what it sounds like it's about. Sometimes it is! And it's open to interpretation.” – Harry Styles.</p>
<p>In which Harry finds inspiration in Taylor, or how his songs came to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Olivia

**Author's Note:**

> Stupid album making me feel stupid things. Sigh. 
> 
> Basically, short little fics on how Harry comes up with the lyrics to the songs he creates. All in good fun, of course. :)

It started out as a joke.

They were drunk on wine and vodka and takeout one night, and that was when he decided it was the best time to play her part of an unfinished track. He remembers needing her advice on how to finish it, because the missing lyric had been irritating him for some time, but the wine was getting to them and everything came out wrapped around giggles and hiccups. He loved her like that, though – completely unfiltered and unaware.

She motioned him to play the track again and again, on a loop, and he watched her get up and twirl around the living room, her skirt flared out around her, toes tripping every so often against the rug. It shouldn’t have been this adorable, sexy thing, it shouldn’t have made him want to kiss her, but it did all the same – everything she did reminded him of magic and he remembers mentally writing that down, wanted to remember her spinning and twirling, just like that, uncomplicated and free. She stumbled a little, bent down to pick up her fluffy white cat, and pranced over to him, presenting the animal like an animated Disney character.

“O-lee-vee-yah,” she dragged out the name in a slow, slurred attempt at a British accent and Harry laughed, felt it start deep in his stomach.

It was silly and stupid and pointless, but he needed that, so much more than he thought he did. He needed bottles of wine and In-N-Out burgers and a pretty blonde girl, presenting him with a fluffy cat, needed the unpredictability and spontaneity, needed a safety net in a New York apartment.

“That’s it! That’s the chorus!” she had screeched suddenly, dropped the cat and reached for her guitar. She ordered him to play the track again and in several seconds, she got it down, fingers flying across the strings expertly. It was something he’d seen her do a thousand times before – on nights like that, even – but it still baffled him, the way she picked up the melody so easily, the way the words she chose fit perfectly. He opened his mouth to say something, but before he did, her voice filled the living room – it was off-key, a little ridiculous, and way too giggly, but to this day, he swears it’s the best sound he’s ever heard.

“Please believe me, don't you see, the things you mean to me? Oh I love you, I love you I love, I love, I love Olivia!” she sang, a happy grin taking up the bottom half of her face, bright and brilliant.

It was quiet for a bit and then she burst out laughing, shaking her head, because it was a ridiculous lyric. It was smart and witty, sure, but it was about her cat, for goodness sakes.

“You’re mad. Absolutely mad,” he chuckled, taking the guitar away from her. She shrugged, plucked a fry off the coffee table, and leaned back into the couch, propping her bare feet up on his lap.

“If you find something better to rhyme with Olivia, then you let me know,” she smirked, assured and confident. It’s almost worlds away, the way she acted, compared to how he knew her before. But they’re both different, older, better versions of themselves, less intense and definitive about where they stand and what they mean to each other.

“That I’ll do,” he smirked right back.

Almost a year later, when the album comes out, he sends her a text message with two words:

_Track 9._

He gets a reply, almost immediately:

_Told you, you couldn’t find anything better. :P_

It makes him laugh out loud, loud enough that Niall shoots him a weird look from across the plane – they’re hurtling towards Los Angeles and he’s pretty sure she’s in New York. They’re worlds apart now, so far from wine-drunk nights and midnight drives and someone else gets to see her unfiltered and unaware now, someone else gets to eat burgers with her in the New York apartment.

He reads the text message, over and over again, and he comes to the conclusion that as usual, she’s right – he couldn’t find anything better and he probably never would.


	2. If I Could Fly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Out of all the tracks on Made in the AM, this is probably my absolute favorite. Their voices are heavenly and it just gives me so many feelings. :)

He’s about to head into the studio, this dark, underground basement thing in London. It’s almost 1 AM and he’s exhausted from playing back to back shows, but he needs to write something – mostly because of deadlines, but also because he hasn’t jotted down anything good in the past few weeks.

He pushes open the door with a heavy sigh, lets the dark studio fall over him. Julian’s in the corner, headphones on and bopping along to an unfinished track and Ross and Johan are bouncing ideas back and forth, some slow, jazz music filtering through the speakers. It feels like home, feels familiar, and he wants to sink down into the leather couch and sleep for a few years – he seriously debates it, dropping his stuff on the floor to announce his presence.

“Styles, glad you could make it,” Johan says and Harry nods, about to make his way over, when his phone starts ringing. It’s a Ryan Adams song and he hasn’t heard that ringtone in months.

Mumbling a quick apology, he fishes out his phone and steps out of the studio for privacy. 

“Taylor?” his voice is thick, sleepy, and a little slurred - the name feels foreign in his mouth. They haven’t talked in months, haven’t touched base or caught up, and it’s not a huge fallout, it’s literally just because they haven’t been in the same country for more than a day.

“I…where are you?” she asks, her voice small and hesitant.

Harry’s immediately on edge, because this isn’t the Taylor he knows. This isn’t confident, self-assured, independent Taylor Swift, this is quiet, meek, shy Taylor - and it’s a version he hasn’t heard from in years.

“London - what’s wrong?” his voice is urgent, desperate for some sort of explanation. A million scenarios are running through his head, from something serious to wishful thinking.

“Oh, haven’t you heard? I’m dating Matty.”

He catches the bitterness in her voice, finds the problem in the way she says it, almost immediately. He’s seen the tabloids, of course. Headlines claiming that Taylor and Matty had hooked up backstage at the band’s most recent show, details coming from ‘unknown sources’ about their steamy night at a nearby hotel. It reminded him of a December, a few years back, but he bites his lip not to bring up those memories again.

“Are you alright?” he asks, brows furrowed. He’s leaning against the side of the house, one foot propped up against the wall. There’s a slight drizzle coming down, drops of rain catching in the curls of his hair. On the other end of the phone, she takes a breath, exhaling slowly and shakily.

“I just thought I was over this, you know? I thought this whole…telescope and speculation about my love life stopped after…”

“After me,” Harry finishes, feeling that familiar knife in his heart. He tries to keep the bitterness out of his own voice, but it’s inevitable, it’s always there, any time the subject of ‘them’ is brought to the table – which has been happening more often than usual.

“After you,” she agrees. “I’m not supposed to be that girl anymore. They’re washing away who I am, who I’m trying to be, and it’s just…it’s all getting…”

Her sentence trails off, like she’s too tired to keep explaining, and all Harry wants to do is somehow find his way to her. He wants to make sure she’s alright, wants to make sure she’s warm and safe and protected – except he can’t articulate this, doesn’t know if he should, even.

It’s been so long. It’s been so long since the midnight drives and the glances from across crowded parties, since the hotel rooms and secret phone calls.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be putting all this on you, it’s not like you can fix it…even if it’d be so much better if you were here, but…” her voice tapers off, small and hesitant on the other line. “You’re in London.”

He can see her shaking her head on the other side of the call, knows that she’s trying to talk some sense into herself. He wishes she wouldn’t second-guess herself, wishes she’d just take the risk and go into it – this, him - whole-heartedly. It’s ironic, because when they were together, it was Harry who couldn’t do it.

“I’m in London,” he repeats, tries to figure it out in his head.

He could do it. He could cancel the recording session with Julian and Johan and Ross, he could be on a private jet in twenty minutes, he could be on his way to her so fast, the reality of it is dizzying. But he can’t. He can’t, because it’d be too easy and then it’d be too hard to let go. There’s a time for impulse and there’s a time for control and he’s given in one too many times and his heart is finally catching up to his head – they have to draw the line somewhere. He thinks of the producers and writers inside the studio, how they’re all waiting on him. He thinks of the conversations he’ll have to have with the boys - how Liam will give out to him and Louis will roll his eyes with a smirk and Niall will ask when Harry and Taylor will get over the drama and just get married already. He briefly thinks of Zayn, but immediately shakes it off.

“If I could…” he starts.

“You would. I know,” she finishes.

It’s how most of their conversations go nowadays. Her muffled cries over the phone, trying to find a way to ask him to find her again. His deep, slurred voice trying to soothe her with stories about the night sky.

“I’m so sorry.”

He means to say it as a normal apology – _I’m sorry for not being able to come and meet you, I’m sorry for being a million miles away_ – but for some reason, it comes out heavier, as if he’s saying sorry for the past few years, as if he’s apologising for the way the world has painted her.

“It’s not your fault,” she shrugs – he can’t see it, but he knows she does. There’s silence, one that’s weighted down with so many questions and not nearly enough answers. “I just…needed to hear your voice.”

Harry sighs, runs a hand through his hair, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. He wants to be there with her so much, wants to tell her…what, exactly? They’re on opposite sides of the world, connected only by the understanding of fame and what it does. They’re different – he can’t think about being with someone that isn’t her and she can’t bring herself to dive in headfirst. He knows it’d never work, at least not now. Timing had never been on their side and they had been horrible with trying to keep up…

“I miss you,” he exhales the words, lets them fall off his tongue in a breathless whisper. On the other side of the phone, he knows her brain is running, scrambling to figure out what those three words could possibly mean.

“I know I’m not meant to,” he continues. “I know I’m in London and you’re in New York or LA or wherever, but I just…God, I miss you. I miss your stupid laugh and Meredith and that red lipstick that gets everywhere. I miss you running off in the middle of a conversation to record something on your phone, I miss driving at 2 am with you…”

“Harry.”

Her voice is small and soft and he can feel it’s warmth, feels the way her tongue wraps around the syllables of his name. There are so many reasons he can think of, why he shouldn’t be saying any of this, but he pushes them away.

“No, I know I’m not…I miss how your kitchen always smelled like cookies and coffee and tea, I miss how messy your hair looks in the morning, how you tap out melodies and beats against the dinner table, I miss you, alright? I miss you and it hurts like hell, all the bloody time, it’s so annoying,” he breathes out a puff of cold air, feeling his cheeks flush at how candid the words that spill from his mouth are. They’re personal, private, and thoughts that he keeps close to the heart, but for some reason, here in the cold London air at 1 AM, it feels right to let her know.

“I…I miss you, too.” The words catch in her throat and he holds on to them for a minute too long. It’s out in the open, all cards laid out on the table, and he knows this is new territory for them, but he can’t let it go, can’t let it pass, like he has so many other moments.

“If I could fly to you, I would,” he finally says, tries to keep the tears that are welling up his eyes at bay.

“I know,” she breathes out.

He’s not sure how it’s come to this. It sounds ridiculous – two famous pop stars, pleading with one another to stay, to find the other, to fix whatever it is that’s broken between the two of them. They have the world at their feet, money at their fingertips, love and support all around them, but somehow, it isn’t enough.

She whispers that she should go and Harry agrees and the phone line cuts out – and he’s suddenly left in the drizzle, holding the only thing that’s connecting him to a girl that has half his heart, a thousand miles away.

* * *

It’s two months after that, when Taylor finally calls him again, out of breath and excited. He’s in Los Angeles and she’s in London, and for a split second, he thinks that this is what cruel irony is. But she’s rambling and rambling about how London feels like home and he wishes he could tell her that he knows what home feels like – it feels like her and her stupid laugh and her warmth.

“I wanted to tell you that I finally listened to it. I know it’s been a month and a half, but I finally pressed play,” she says it in the softest whisper and it stops him in his tracks, toes digging into the carpeted floor of his hotel room.

(He has a house in Los Angeles, but the neighbourhood is too close, the house is too close, and everything still smells like her).

“What did you…what’d you think?” he asks, hesitating, careful with his tone of voice. “I love it. It has to be on the album, Harry. It just has to.”

He grins, smiles so wide that his dimples almost disappear. “If you say so,” he chuckles.

“I miss you.” She says it first this time and he holds on to it, tighter than ever before. This time, it doesn’t feel like a broken plea, doesn’t feel like the end of something horrible and tragic.

This time, when she says it, it sounds like a promise.


	3. Walking in the Wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is delayed. :P I was actually halfway done with this, but couldn't figure out the right way to end it. In typical Harry/Taylor fashion, there is no definitive end. :)

_The fact that we can sit right here and say goodbye_  
_Means we've already won_  
_The necessity for apologies between you and me  
_ _Baby, there is none_

The sun dips low behind the city skyline and he takes a deep breath, tries to steady himself for the next part. Harry and Taylor have been at this for three hours - this back and forth yelling, screaming, and fighting, and giving up. She’s slumped against the edge of the bed, her toes burrowing into the fluffy carpet of their hotel suite, eyes rimmed red from crying, and hair all mussed. He wants to make it better, wants to make her smile, but doesn’t know how anymore – doesn’t know if he should.

Maybe this is how it ends.

“It’s getting dark,” he says instead, eyes squinting into the distance, past the city skyline and into the orange glow that covers Manhattan. He pushes himself away from the picture window and settles down next to her, nudging his arm against hers.

As if on cue, her head drops to rest on his shoulder, a shaky sigh escaping her lips. “I’m so…tired,” she says.

He squeezes his eyes shut, wants to tell her to hold on, that they can do this; they can get through it together. But he knows it’s pointless. He’s back on the road in a few days and she’s back in the studio and they’ll be on opposite sides of the world – and even if they weren’t, would they still want to try? Could they take the flashing lights and the prying eyes, all over again? Or would it just be another misguided attempt at love, at inevitable heartache? Were they ready to see their every detail splashed all over the tabloids again? Or would it be too much, be the second breaking point – again?

“You have to go in a few minutes,” he points out, checks the clock on the nightstand, glares a little at the hand that ticks closer and closer to the part where she has to leave.

She lifts her head from his shoulder and presses her lips to his collarbone, breathing in, trying to commit him to memory. It feels final this time, almost like giving up, but also like winning – like making this decision on their own…makes it feel like a victory.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers it and he wants to tattoo the words and how it feels like hope and sunlight against his bare skin. “We can’t…this is over, isn’t it?”

His heart drops, knows it shouldn’t because this is the right thing to do, but it does anyway and he wants to be young again, reckless and free, unshackled by fame and flashing lights and speculation. But this is how it goes.

This is how it ends.

“Hey…hey, this is a good thing,” he says, turning to look at her. There are tears in her eyes again and like a reflex, he reaches up to brush her hair out of her eyes, wipes her soft cheek, and lets his thumb rest there. “They can’t get to us, they can’t touch us, okay? Not this time. They don’t get a say in how we decide to end things this time,”

“I wanted it to be different,” Taylor turns her head into the palm of his hand, presses a kiss to the inside of his wrist and his heart breaks all over again.

She’ll leave in twenty minutes, he realizes. She’ll walk out the door and he won’t know when he’ll see her again – next week, next month, maybe even next year. He’ll see her on a magazine cover or he’ll see her posts on Instagram and her life is going to be separate from his.

But he swears it’s the right thing to do, believes with all the broken pieces of his heart that ending it on their terms means they’ve won, somehow.

Maybe this is how it ends.

* * *

 

 

It’s two years later when he gets some time off in LA and a friend invites him out for a birthday party. He vaguely knows who it’s for, decides to go anyway because he has no other plans and figures it’s a good chance to meet some new people. He hasn’t been doing that a lot lately, tries not to think too much about it, but it creeps into his mind every now and again – the image of a beautiful blonde girl and how she lit up the night sky.

The party is dark and smoky, the smell of alcohol sits heavy in the air, and for a brief moment, Harry’s reminded of how much he hates the so-called Hollywood glamour. Bodies are pressed against each other and he shuffles his way through the crowd, gets dragged into a group of people he vaguely knows. Someone shoves a glass of champagne into his hand and he raises his glass for the toast. There’s Ed and Lily and Behati…and then he’s struck with the realization that these are _her_ friends.

It almost feels like cheating.

 Y _esterday I went out to celebrate the birthday of a friend  
_ _But as we raised our glasses up to make a toast  
_ _I realized you were missing_

* * *

_We had some good times, didn't we?_  
_We wore our hearts out on our sleeve_  
_Goodbyes are bittersweet_  
_But it's not the end  
_ _I'll see your face again_

He’s crossing Fifth Avenue and strolls past a magazine stand when he sees it for the first time. The early morning sunlight hits the cover and bounces off the glittered letters and it’s nearly impossible for him to ignore.

Taylor’s Vogue cover.

It’s epic, he has to admit that. She’s beautiful and sometimes Harry can’t believe he ever fell in love with her. Not because she’s so far removed from who she was, but…well, she kind of is, now. He doesn’t know this Taylor anymore, doesn’t know who she is now, and it’s not like it’s a sad thing, it’s just…reality. He’s not mad, it’s just that a part of him still wishes he was in her life – he doesn’t know what she laughs at now, or how she likes her coffee, or if she still has that weird laugh that sounds part seal, part wailing cat. She’s different and it’s not bad or good, it’s just…different.

He stops at the magazine stand, debating whether he should pick up Vogue and call it a day, but he knows the owner is eyeing him carefully. Instead, Harry rounds the stand and this time, it’s his own face that catches his attention. Except he’s not all alone on a Vogue cover or something equally credible – instead, his face is positioned next to Calvin Harris’ and the headline screams, “Calvin jealous of Taylor’s ex?!” He almost doesn’t do it, but it’s early in the morning and there’s barely anybody around, so he picks it up and flicks immediately to the cover story. He knows it’s probably all lies, but he also knows tabloids work off of a small grain of truth and so it doesn’t surprise him to see that they’ve got an entire timeline worked out and…

“Fuck.”

Harry curses under his breath, because it’s like a slap in the face. He remembers that night, watching her dance at the Kids’ Choice Awards. He remembers strolling around Central Park, the way she took care of Lux while they looked at seals. He remembers the hotel rooms, bringing her back home, the birthday cupcakes, the ski trip, and that picture of Taylor on a boat.

It hits Harry hard, knocks the wind out of him, because despite the fact that this stupid tabloid magazine is trying to set them up for a downfall, he can’t help but think they had a good run.

* * *

It’s probably a few years later when it happens again. He wakes up one night, the apartment doorbell ringing like mad, and it startles him because he just moved in a few months ago and nobody – except his agent, his band members, and his family – knows that he’s there. The doorbell is still going and he wonders how someone could have gotten past security, because it’s nearly 2.30 in the morning. With a mumble, Harry makes his way towards the front door, feet tripping over boxes that are half unpacked. He presses his finger to the little screen that’s set up on the wall and it comes to life, prompting him for a password which he keys in with as much enthusiasm he can muster at 2.30 in the morning. The screen lights up and a video of what’s on the other side of the door materializes and Harry swears his heart actually stops beating.

Taylor.

She looks different now, hair bleached blonde and messy, remnants of dark lipstick still lingering at the edges of her mouth. He doesn’t even think twice about it, ignores the little red light beeping on the screen, and just yanks the door open forcefully. Taylor almost just falls in, as if she’s expecting him to be there with open, inviting arms – and God, it shouldn’t be this way again after all these years, but he is. He wraps himself around her and she shakes in his embrace, her skin prickling from the cold. Harry steers them towards the couch and they sit down and there are so many questions at the tip of his tongue, so many things he wants to say – building up from the last time they were like this, what was it, three, four years ago?  
He memorizes her again, involuntarily, fingers relearning the curves of her body – some hard, some softer, as if time has chipped away parts of her and he wants to go back and figure it all out again. She takes a deep breath and he can feel it in her ribcage, before she exhales and collapses into his shoulder, her tears quickly running down his skin.

Harry’s not surprised to see Taylor this emotional, with no real explanation behind it, but they’ve never been here before. She’s still with him and he’s still with her, but in this moment, for reasons they don’t understand, the other people in their lives don’t matter.

The only ones who do – are each other.

_You will find me_  
_Yeah you will find me_  
_In places that we've never been_  
_For reasons we don't understand_  
_Walking in the wind  
_ _Walking in the wind..._


End file.
